


Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me

by waltermitty



Series: Good Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Big Gay Love Story, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltermitty/pseuds/waltermitty
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley post saving the world.





	Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted an excuse to write a little fluff piece abt my fave angel demon pair.

Crowley was seething. Annoyed was his baseline emotion, Aziraphale having seen him become enraged only once or twice. Seething, however, was a new one. The demon had been sauntering around in those tight leather pants that hugged his ass just so and perhaps the angel wanted to rile him up just a little bit. It was meant to be harmless, a drink after saving the world together. Aziraphale was a bit gloomy, his usual holy glowing attitude being rained upon due to losing his bookstore, and everything he’d spent all those years collecting. He played it off in the company of Gabriel and the other angles, but as soon as he was embraced by Crowley he began to cry. It was pathetic really, he mused, thousands of years together, wars, revolutions, countless spats, and yet he’d never cried in front of the other. After a good cry and several drinks, Crowley had ripped his sunglasses off and loosened the top button of his gray silk shirt, began to pace and thrummed his fingers together, tossing a menacing glance towards his plants every so often. They shook as he thundered about, their deep green leaves fluttering as if there was a breeze rattling them to and fro. There was no breeze. 

“What are you staring at me like that for.” Crowley snapped, tipsy, catching Aziraphale watching him from the plush armchair. 

“You look nice- that’s all.” As soon as the words come out of his mouth the angel swallows a smile, knowing the word “nice” is going to ruffle up his counterpart as nothing else could. 

As predicted, and hoped for, the demon stalks back towards the armchair, slaps his hands down on either side of his angel, and leans down to shove their noses together, lips curled. 

“What did you fucking call me?” Crowley growled, those yellow slitted eyes flicking back and forth across Aziraphale's reddening face. 

“Well, I said you looked nice, I didn’t say you were nice.” Aziraphale leaned back in the armchair best he could, what with the demon pinning him in place. 

Thus began the seething. 

Crowley squeezed the sides of the armchair as he leaned impossibly closer, breath warm over the angels' lips and cheeks. 

“I- am not nice. I do not look nice. I am a demon, nice isn’t in my vernacular.” 

“You look beautiful. You look angelic even.” Aziraphale replies, smiles as Crowley gasps, eyes wide. 

After thousands of years together, tag-teaming the universe with their acts of good and evil, Aziraphale knew how to get under Crowley’s skin, which was what he was doing right now. 

The demon screeched, which sent his angel into a fit of giggles and his hand clapped over his mouth as he laughed at Crowley's bared teeth and squeaky boots. 

He eyed the angel for a moment, white hair falling in tufts around his eyes, his mouth open with laughter. He was sprawled in Crowley's too big armchair, adjacent to the throne, looking haphazard and calm and not at all like they'd just ended Armageddon together and then ran away with one another. 

Crowley was going to scream. 

"Listen here, Angel. I don't look nice, I look bad. I look evil and suave and handsome but I do not look angelic." Crowley does his best to appear menacing, the anger a facade for his angel to enjoy. 

Aziraphale just raises one beatific white eyebrow and quirks his lips up, tongue coming out to wet his mouth ever so slightly. 

"Kiss me, you evil foul beast." Aziraphale whispers, smile stretching across his cheeks. 

Crowley does then, strides back over to his armchair and leans in, gentle at first and then cups the others jaw, shoves his knee into the cushion between his angel's legs. Crowley would assume that after all these millennia together that nothing could surprise him about Aziraphale anymore. As usual, he's wrong. The angel turns bright pink and gasps into the mouth of the other, hands coming up to flit uselessly near Crowley’s face. 

Despite the kiss being their first, Crowley seems to know exactly what Aziraphale wants and it's awful. Aziraphale had secretly been hoping that Crowley would have turned him down, been the bigger well- being, would be the one with the level head. The angel had been wanting the other since he stood upon the wall surrounding the Garden of Eden, a wing covering the other from the pouring rain. He’d chased the demon through lifetimes, had his own behind saved by the demon countless times. It was not his fault that crepes in France were so much better than those in England! It wasn’t. The sound of his own shocked gasps brought him back to the present, where he found that Crowley was licking a trail into his mouth like it was his sole purpose in life. 

Finally, despite the fact that it felt like he might die whilst doing so, Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale and took a breath, hand still clutching the side of the armchair like it was the only thing keeping him from floating up up up and away. 

 

“Happy?” Crowley hears himself pant out, quiet and maybe slightly nervous. He would not let the other know that, however, because he was Lord Crowley of Hell and he had appearances to keep. 

“Well- I- erm, yes.” Aziraphale thinks it’s quite rude of Crowley to even ask such a thing, seeing as he knows damm well that the angel is boneless right now, surprised by the kiss itself. 

Pleasantly surprised, millennia of tension and love cresting like a wave and crashing into them, soaked to the bone. Aziraphale decides he’d like to kiss Crowley some more, and maybe never stop. They did happen to run away together, found themselves a beautiful little cottage in the French Quarter. 

 

The plants had ceased their shaking, had huddled together, their leaves enveloping one another as if they were hugging. Aziraphale reminded himself to give them extra water later and murmer to them that they were doing great. 

 

“Well that was a bit overdue wasn’t it,” Crowley mutters, pushes himself off the armchair and begins to pace again, sauntering around in the stupid leather pants that started this whole mess. 

“Yes. About 3,000 years overdue.” Aziraphale's lips quirk into a smirk as Crowley paces himself into a stupor. 

The angel pushes himself out of the armchair and walks over to Crowley, places his hands gently on the other’s shoulders, stops him in his tracks. 

“I think we should kiss some more. You know- to make up for lost time.” There’s a twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes, sparkling in the blue. Crowley just grins with all his teeth, leans in and presses his lips to his angel’s. 

They kiss for years, allowing time to race by them as they sit, undisturbed, in their little cottage, their plants growing into a canopy above their heads. One day, after morning tea, Crowley finds himself humming an ancient hymn, something from back in the ’40s. He catches Aziraphale saying “hell” more often than not as a curse word, the two of them bleeding together as so to become more each other than themselves. 

Crowley finds that he likes this phenomenon, likes to have pieces of his angel tucked into his cold heart, finds it beating again. Aziraphale secretly enjoys his wild side, the bits of his demon pouring out of him in times of excitement, or anger. He begins to feel again. 

So perhaps they spend a better part of eternity together, kissing and enjoying themselves, eating crepes and feeding one another bits and pieces of their own ancient wisdom. It’s during this time that Crowley discovers Elton John, and there is one century straight of it being all he can about stand. Aziraphale thinks it could be worse.


End file.
